The excerpt below is a chapter from the book "Covered in Flour," where I recount a memorable childhood day spent with my Aunt Nina and other family members in Little Italy during the celebration of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary.
THE FEAST – PART II
AUGUST 1968
We pulled into Hilltop's Little Italy in Aunt Nina's iconic Ford Country Squire Woodie Station Wagon, the faux-wood paneling in all its glory. The air inside the car was scented with the sweet smell of cannoli and pizzelle. Beside the fine pastries were folding tables, crisp tablecloths, and an arsenal of serving ware, ready for action.
I unfurled a hand-painted sign, hand-written letters announcing the day's temptations: "Cannoli $2.50, Pizzelles: 5 for $2.00." My cousins buzzed around like a swarm of industrious bees, each contributing to the hive of our makeshift stall. The neighborhood was tinged with excitement; we were all bracing ourselves for the looming wave of hungry food enthusiasts.
With the intoxicating aroma of garlic and oregano wafting through the air, the streets had transformed into a sprawling Italian culinary sanctuary, bursting at the seams with an ocean of food lovers. Closed to cars but thronging with pedestrians, the thoroughfares had become vibrant arteries of human appetite.
Vendors stood elbow-to-elbow, setting up banners that fluttered like flags over their dominions. Each stall was its own vibrant tapestry, a colorful mosaic boasting an array of pizzas, cavatelli, and delectable Italian pastries. Amidst this rich tableau, other stands showcased playful swag, from "Kiss Me, I'm Italian" T-shirts to cheeky bumper stickers that captured the spirit of the day.
Fizzy sodas popped and hissed from another stand, adding effervescence to an already exciting atmosphere. A sense of eager anticipation settled over us as we took our places behind our table. Our stall was a lovingly crafted tableau of family, tradition, and mouth-watering promise.
The smell of our freshly filled cannoli acted like a magnet, drawing a steady stream of customers, their faces lighting up at the sight of the golden pastries. We had barely arranged the last delicate tubes on the display tray when the first inquiries came in. The cannoli shells were filled after each order, assuring the freshness of the experience. "Two cannoli, please!" one customer exclaimed, barely containing their excitement. "Make that three!" another chimed in, swayed by the scrumptious offerings laid out before them.
Soon enough, it wasn't just a trickle of customers but a flood. My cousins and I moved in a harmonized dance of commerce and culinary artistry, refilling trays at a speed we'd never imagined possible. Cash exchanged hands so quickly it was a blur, and the clinking of coins and the rustling of bills became the percussion to our day's unfolding symphony. My older cousins handled the cash, and I helped to restock the merchandise and supplies stored in the back apartments and sometimes the basement.
As the crowd ballooned, Aunt Nina stood back momentarily, her eyes scanning our bustling stall. She seemed to be taking in the fruits of our collective labor.
"Ah, magnifico! Look at this, Carlito," Aunt Nina exclaimed, her voice tinged with pride and awe. "We've struck gold with the cannoli!"
No sooner had she spoken than a customer approached, eyes widening at the sight of our golden, cream-filled pastries. "I'll take four cannoli, please!" the woman said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.
As the day wore on, Aunt Nina became the charismatic captain of our ship, orchestrating the ballet of sales with a maternal touch. "Riccardo, keep an eye on the cash box. Maria, we need another tray of cannoli now!"
Despite the chaos, Aunt Nina found a moment to stand beside me. "Did you ever think we'd sell out like this?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"To be honest, I was hopeful but not sure," I replied, sharing a glance as another wave of customers closed in.
"Well, always remember," she said, leaning in to impart her wisdom as she often did, "good food, made with love, will always find its way to the heart. And today, it looks like the heart is loving cannoli!"
As part of the festival's time-honored traditions, a reverent procession wove its way through the crowded streets, featuring a statue of the Virgin Mary at its center. Carried aloft on a platform adorned with fragrant flowers, the statue was surrounded by lines to which dollar bills had been clipped—each bill a donation, a wish, or a prayer. The sight of Mary, her serene countenance framed by these tangible expressions of faith and community, inspired a collective moment of spiritual reflection amid the culinary and cultural celebrations. As hymns filled the air and prayers were recited, the procession moved with solemn grace through the festival, uniting the crowd in a brief, shared act of devotion.
Mom and Dad had decided to leave the festival early, entrusting me to the care of Aunt Nina. I planned to soak up the festivities and eventually head home with her. As the afternoon sun descended, casting elongated shadows on the bustling streets, Aunt Nina and I looked at each other in awe. Once heaped with cannoli, the trays now lay almost bare, the last remaining pastries looking lonely but proud. I took a moment to update the sign; the bold letters now read, "Last Call for Cannoli!"
As we marveled at our near-empty cannoli trays, I saw Aunt Julie, another sister of Dad's, a few stalls down, effortlessly charming a crowd around her cavatelli pasta station. Aunt Julie, who stands no taller than 4'10", was holding court at her own bustling station. Despite her petite stature, her presence was larger than life as she captivated the crowd around her cavatelli pasta stand. "Ah, my dears, you simply haven't lived until you've tried these little pasta shells of heaven," Aunt Julie exclaimed, her hands theatrically scooping up a generous serving. She handed over the steaming plate to a customer with a knowing wink and a flourish. "Buon appetito! You'll be back for seconds; I promise you that!"
Her beaming smile and the irresistible aroma wafting from her bubbling pots seemed to work their magic—before long, a queue had formed, eager for a taste of Aunt Julie's famed cavatelli. It was clear that the pasta, like our cannoli, had found its way into the hearts—and stomachs—of the festivalgoers.
Our hearts swelled with a combination of elation and exhaustion. The buzz around our stall had reached a crescendo, and as we began to pack up our nearly emptied supplies, it became clear: the cannoli sales hadn't just been good—they'd been tremendous, surpassing even our wildest expectations.
As the sky deepened into a velvety night, the festival's atmosphere began to shift. The overhead string lights twinkled like distant stars, casting their warm glow onto the streets now teeming with a slightly rowdier crowd. Laughter erupted more boisterously, conversations turned louder, and it was evident that the alcohol from wine and beer stands had begun to take its merry effect.
Aunt Nina shot me a knowing glance as we navigated through the final rush, a group of jovial festivalgoers making playful banter as they stumbled upon our near-empty cannoli trays. "Well, these folks are certainly feeling the spirit," she said, with amusement and caution.
As the night grew darker and the atmosphere more boisterous, a sudden tension cut through the joy. From a distance, raised voices escalated into shouting. My eyes followed the commotion, my heart sinking as I saw a group of young white men surrounding a Black man. Their body language radiated aggression and malice, and before anyone could intervene, they started beating him.
He was shoved forcefully, stumbling backward until he fell near Aunt Julie's cavatelli stand. Aunt Julie, all 4'10" of her, sprang into action. Despite her munchkin stature, her presence commanded attention as she placed herself between the fallen man and his aggressors. It was evident that he was in bad shape. His face was bloodied, his clothes torn, and the pain in his eyes spoke volumes. His vulnerability in that moment was a sharp contrast to the veneer of festivity that had, until now, defined the gathering. My eight-year-old heart pounded in my chest like a frantic drum, each beat echoing the rising shouts and guttural aggression spilling from the street.
"Enough! Leave him alone, now!" Aunt Julie's usually warm and inviting voice was edged with a steely resolve that sliced through the rowdy din of the festival crowd. The unyielding look in her eyes dared the assailants to take another step closer. The crowd, frozen as if touched by a wand, seemed to hold its collective breath. My senses sharpened, every face a study in tension, every eye a mirror reflecting the showdown between my aunt and the would-be attackers.
As a young boy standing there, witnessing this display of courage, I felt an immense sense of pride swell within me. Aunt Julie, a tiny lady, had just shown me that bravery isn't measured in stature but in the willingness to stand up for what is right, no matter the odds. At that moment, her diminutive frame seemed to expand, filling the space with a moral authority that was as commanding as it was humbling. I knew then that true courage could be found in the smallest of packages, and it made me incredibly proud to be her nephew.
Shocked into stillness, the crowd fell momentarily silent. People looked from Aunt Julie to the young men as if gauging where the scales of right and wrong would tip. The tension was palpable, a live wire coursing through the air. "Call the police, Nina," Aunt Julie said, not taking her eyes off the young men, "and someone get this gentleman some help." Aunt Nina had rushed inside the bakery to phone for the police.
My older cousin took quick stock of the chaos and grabbed my arm. "Come on, let's get you out of here," he said, his voice filled with a mix of urgency and concern. We weaved through the crowd, which had now turned from boisterous revelers into a more somber gathering, their faces marked by the unfolding drama. My cousin led me away from the scene, up the street, and back to our apartment, which now felt like a sanctuary compared to the tumult we'd just left.
Once inside, he closed the door gently, as if to physically shut out the darkness of the events we had witnessed. We both knew that the night had exposed an ugliness that would leave an indelible mark, not just on the festival, but on the community itself. I couldn't escape the night's cruel lesson on the darkness that lurked in human hearts. It was a somber end to a day that had begun with so much promise and joy, and as we sat in the quietude of the apartment, we were left to grapple with the complex emotions of a celebration marred by violence and spared by acts of courage. A small flicker of hope stubbornly remained.